A Bright Strip of Sunlight
by ncfan
Summary: She has no words for what happened to her.


**TRIGGER WARNING**: This is a trigger warning for anyone who has ever been raped, who has ever known someone who was raped, or who has ever been so much as tangentially connected with rape. This work deals with the aftermath of rape; the assault itself shall not be shown in detail, but I'm still dealing with the fallout.

Also, in the visual novel, in Ep. 7, at least, the Beatrice of Kuwadorian seems to know that Kinzo is her father, but in the manga version of Ep. 3, she says "I think of you as both a friend and a father", which would tend to indicate that she doesn't know. I'm going with the latter; since Kinzo convinced himself that Beatrice was her mother's reincarnation, I feel like he probably didn't raise her specifically as his child.

I own nothing.

* * *

Beatrice has no words for what happened to her. No words to describe it, and no way to stop thinking about it, not in the two days since it happened. Here she is, lying awake in bed. Sunlight filters past the curtains; it must be midday at least. The weather outside is lovely, and she's always loved this time of year, the springtime. But she hasn't gone outside in two days. She doesn't want to now.

It feels… It feels strange, lying in this bed. Beatrice doesn't want to bother any of her maidservants by having them opening up one of the other bedchambers and moving her belongings there. She's never liked bothering or inconveniencing anyone; Kumasawa used to cluck at her when she was little for not telling her when she had a headache of some small ill. But, still…

The lady of Kuwadorian, young Beatrice, has lived here for as long as she can remember. There has never been any way outside the wrought-iron fences, past the wolves she's assured live in the dense woods just beyond the sculpted gardens of her home. She's lived in isolation, the princess in the woods. She's spent long summer days sitting at the fence, staring out through iron bars into the deep wild beyond, wondering why the air beyond the fence smells so much sweeter than within. Petted, praised, doted upon, trapped, she's never known any life but this.

Ushiromiya Kinzo, the man who has surveyed her progress since her birth, came to visit her periodically throughout her life. Sometimes he stays for only a few hours; sometimes for a few days. He's always been kind to her, always doted upon her most of all. Ever since she understood the meaning of the word "father" and all that went along with it, Beatrice has thought of him as a father. This is the man whom everyone respects; this is the man whom everyone defers to. He put her here for her protection, he's told her; she's here because of the wolves outside the fence, because of the people in the world beyond who would hurt her if they knew of her.

She tried to call him father once, when she was a little girl.

Only once.

"_Never call me that, Beatrice! It will do to call me Kinzo."_

_There is fury in his voice, and something else, sticky and quavering; his gray eyes rove over every inch of her, trapped with pain. It's that unnamed sentiment, the look in his eyes, and not the fury, that holds Beatrice to obedience. She doesn't want to be the cause of that pain, not ever again._

Beatrice has never asked for much. She likes sweets and likes to be allowed to brew her own tea (A rarity indeed, since Kumasawa always insists that proper ladies like herself shouldn't risk the softness of their hands brewing tea). She likes the books that are given to her on occasion. She likes the roses. When she was young, Beatrice was mad about her paints and her crayons, mad about jigsaw puzzles and fairytales. (_She still believes, to this day, that she's a princess locked away in an enchanted castle, waiting for a prince to come and take her away. Sometimes, Beatrice wonders if she shouldn't just leave on her own, and let the prince come only to find an empty castle.)_

These things, they weren't expensive things, even if she was shy about asking for them. Beatrice has never asked for much, and yet she's been given everything. She's gone about clothed in velvet, in satin, in muslin and silk and brocades her whole life. The funniest thing about it is that she wouldn't even recognize how fine and ornate her clothes are if she didn't notice how plain and ordinary the clothes of her maidservants are by comparison. It makes her a little uncomfortable sometimes; she wonders why Kumasawa and Hana and Misaki have to wear their plain, scratchy clothes if she and Kinzo can go around in their fine garments. But no one else seems to think anything's wrong with it, so Beatrice tries not to think about it.

Beatrice, young lady of Kuwadorian, can have anything she wants. She can do whatever she pleases, except go outside the fence. But it's not so bad, she tells herself, every time she sits under the arbor and stares out at the world beyond. It's for her own protection, after all; everyone tells her so. And life here isn't so bad.

As a child, Kinzo never hesitated to play games with Beatrice. Be it Tag or Hide-or-Seek, or Cat's Cradle or Jacks, he's always said yes when she asked him to play with her. It so delighted Beatrice to have someone to play with, and despite his being an adult dressed in fine clothes, despite his often being so distant in other respects, Kinzo seemed to be delighted to play with her. He would show a different side of himself, in those moments.

Memories spring, unbidden, to her mind. Beatrice chokes and swallows thickly, drawing her long legs near to her chest.

_A bright strip of sunlight falls over the bed. There's a deep red spot on the otherwise smooth brown hardwood ceiling. Beatrice fixes her eyes on that, willing herself not to look at anything else._

_She doesn't look at her bare body. She doesn't look at him, or his hands and his mouth, both wandering slowly, agonizingly slowly, over her flesh. Shame and embarrassment and a pervasive sense of vulnerability makes her skin turn to gooseflesh, makes her blood rush full-throttle through her veins and her voice shrivel and die in her throat. She's always told to obey Kinzo and be grateful to him; she's certainly never supposed to raise her voice to him or object to anything he's doing. She doesn't protest this with words. But Beatrice doesn't like this, doesn't like the way it makes her feel, doesn't like the way her body tingles in response to his touch, doesn't like the way he says her name…_

"_Beatrice."_

She squeezes her blue eyes shut, trying desperately to expunge the image from her mind, thinking about the strip of sunlight and the spot on the ceiling, anything but what else was going on.

It… It was just a game, wasn't it? Just a game, like Tag and Hide-or-Seek, wasn't it? This was just like when Kinzo would hold her in his lap when she was a little girl, stroking her hair and telling her how pretty she was. It-It's just like that, that and no different, the warm, welcomed affection he showered on her when she was a little girl.

But then…

Why…

_He's clutching her ankles and sobbing, trying to say something, but managing nothing coherent. Beatrice shakes, tries to pull a sheet up over her flesh, and can't quite find the free hand to push her disheveled hair out of her eyes._

_It occurs to Beatrice that if she kicked Kinzo now, her foot would catch him in the jaw. Then, in an unhinged moment, it occurs to her that she actually wants to. But proper ladies are never supposed to kick people in the face, not even if they're naked, scared, and bleeding._

_Suddenly, a howl rises in her throat and she starts to wail, bereft, feeling like a little girl again or some small animal caught in a monstrous storm. Thick tears slide down her cheeks, drip off the tip of her nose, and catch inside her mouth, raking her throat until it feels sore and ragged._

_He sobs. She wails. This is the scene that Kumasawa bursts into the room to find, seconds later._

It was just a game, wasn't it? Or maybe it's not a game. Maybe it's something Kinzo's supposed to do, or something that men are supposed to do to the girls that look upon them as their fathers. But if that's so, why did he weep so much afterwards? Why was Kumasawa so angry and distraught when she saw what had transpired? If that's so, why does her skin crawl to remember it? Why does she feel unsafe and trammeled to lie in the bed where it happened? (_The bed linens were all thoroughly washed and clean ones put in their place, but the perfumes used to keep them sweet and fresh are the same, and it makes her heart pound out of rhythm_).

_If it was a game, _Beatrice thinks to herself, _it… it wasn't a good one. _

She feels hollowed-out like someone's scooped out her insides, her essence, everything that made her who she is. Like a plush doll that hasn't been stuffed yet, lying limp and lifeless on top of a much-too-big bed. And confused, with no way to describe what happened.

And frightened of what will happen if she goes to sleep.

-0-0-0-

Lowering herself slowly into the slipper bathtub, Beatrice feels some of the tension go out of her muscles as the hot water spills over her flesh. She skims her fingertips over the surface of the water listlessly, eyes glazed over, trying not to look at herself.

Lately, Kumasawa's been letting her sit and soak in the bathtub for much longer than usual. Ever since she was a little girl, Kumasawa would allow her twenty minutes in the bathtub's steaming water, and no longer. _"You shouldn't dawdle in the bath, Beatrice-sama. Better to be up and about as soon as possible." _But now, she sets no time limit on how long Beatrice can stay in the bath, and now, Beatrice could lie there, immersed in the water, for an hour, and it would draw no complaint from her nurse.

They've all been acting like this lately, treating her even more sweetly and indulgently than before. Anything Beatrice asks for, tentatively, not meeting their eyes (_meeting the eyes of another is a task that has lately grown impossible for her_), she is granted, others falling all over themselves to give her whatever it is she wants. Be it something special from the kitchens or a cut of roses or some other flowers to put in a vase, nothing is denied her.

Sometimes, Beatrice will walk into a room, and find that everyone who was in that room before her suddenly goes quiet, staring at her as if to discern whether she heard what they were saying. Beatrice will walk through the room, eyes on her the whole time, the hair on the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. To be watched constantly makes her feel naked, exposed, like she's a little girl again and she's been caught doing something naughty. And once she leaves the room, the whispering starts again.

She twists a strand of long golden hair, an escapee from her shower cap, in her fingers, staring at but not really seeing the opposite wall. Beatrice wonders what they've been whispering about. She doesn't like the thought, but she thinks they might have been whispering about her.

Did she do something wrong, then? Was what happened between her and Kinzo some sort of test, and did she fail? Was she supposed to make him go away? Was she supposed to be happy about it? Or was something else entirely supposed to happen?

And now, in the tub, Beatrice can't bring herself to look at her own body. Looking at herself, at alabaster flesh and fine, thin blonde hairs, makes her think about what happened, makes her think of what her body must have looked like when he explored it; her flesh recoils at the very thought.

_I keep wondering if he's going to burst in here just out of the blue, and if that's going to happen again. I keep jumping at loud noises. I keep trying not to fall asleep at night. I… I don't feel like I fit in my skin. I don't feel safe in here, alone in the water without my clothes or anyone else nearby._

Abruptly, Beatrice pulls herself out of the tub and crosses the distance between the tub and where her towel and her soft white bathrobe wait for her. It's not a long distance, but her walking pace quickly breaks into what can nearly be called a run (_She's not run like this since before the days when she started having to wear skirts that made it hard for her to _walk_, let alone run_).

She's been without a shield between her flesh and the world for long enough.

-0-0-0-

Wind batters the windowpanes; rain splatters against the eaves. The roll of thunder makes the furniture rattle; the flash of lightning lights the formerly dark chamber in sharp relief. This is the latest in a long succession of nights that Beatrice has tried as hard as she can not to fall asleep, but the weather has nothing to do with it.

Her mind's starting to grow fuzzy around the edges; her vision's beginning to blur. All the impulses of her body tell Beatrice that she needs to sleep, that she ought to just go to sleep. She's not slept more than three or four hours a night in any of the nights since that day, and her unwillingness to actively seek out sleep is starting to tell in her haggard face, ashen cheeks, shadowed eyes and down-turned lips. She's having a hard time concentrating; Beatrice tried to read one of her books today but had to stop when she realized that she had read the same sentence, over and over, at least a dozen times. Kumasawa and her servants are starting to look at her without bothering to hide their worry.

Still, she can't bring herself to turn to sleep.

Rain is pounding on the roof, a steady, soothing rhythm. Beatrice used to love rainy nights, used to love the way the sound of rain on the roof would ease her off to sleep. Now, she wishes it would stop, so there wouldn't be anything about this world that was encouraging her to sleep, that there wouldn't be anything that was making it any harder for her to stay awake.

Lightning lights up her bedchamber and distorts the shadows of the room, and Beatrice sits bolt upright in her bed, heart throbbing in her throat, pulse racing, terrified. For one moment, she looks at the misshapen shadows and thinks that Kinzo's in her room.

But she's alone.

Beatrice sinks back down into bed, burrowing, head, chest and all, beneath the covers like she's a little girl again, playing with her dolls and using her linen bed sheets and soft comforter as a tent. Except this isn't a game, except Beatrice is sick of games, sick of Kinzo and his games that make her feel like she's wearing her skin inside out and the whole world's gone topsy-turvy. She's sick of being afraid to go to sleep.

_But what will happen if I do go to sleep? _Beatrice wonders. _I'll have nightmares again, even in that weak, feverish sleep I get by falling asleep once I'm too exhausted to stay awake. Or I might wake up, and I'll find I'm not alone, but it's not Kumasawa-san or Hana or Misaki in here with me. That's even worse than nightmares._

_That's so much worse…_

There's… something wet on her cheek. It dribbles down into her mouth, and Beatrice tastes salt on the tip of her tongue. She's crying, she realizes numbly, crying for the first time since that day. It's… It's really not been that long, but she'd almost forgotten what that feels like.

Beatrice draws a deep, shuddering breath, pulling her legs up close to her chest. She makes up her mind that if Kinzo comes here again, she will not see him, will not acknowledge his presence here at Kuwadorian. But for now, she tries to stay awake, flinching at every loud, sudden noise, and fearing nothing more than the thought that, if she falls asleep, she might not be alone when she wakes up.

-0-0-0-

"Beatrice-sama."

Beatrice, still in bed and dressed in her nightgown, looks up from her book to see Kumasawa standing at her door. Her nurse's lips are slightly tight, a far cry from their normal relaxed smile, but then, they've had that look to them a lot lately. "The master's come to see you. He's waiting outside, under the arbor."

_Kinzo-san… He's here? _She feels her blood run cold. _Here, right now?_

It's been more than a week since that day he led her into this very room and stripped off all her clothes like a child ripping the wrapping paper off of a present on Christmas day, been more than a week since he's come to Kuwadorian at all. His absence has been a source of both relief and trepidation for Beatrice. She's been relieved not to have to face him or speak to him. She's been dreading the day when he'll inevitably come back, never knowing if what happened that day will become the norm for the rest of her life. If that's what her life is going to be, if what happened that day is something that really _is _supposed to happen, Beatrice thinks climbing up to the roof and plummeting to the flagstones below would be better than a life like that.

_I don't want to live like that, uncomfortable and fearful, being played with like a doll. I don't want… I didn't like it…_

Beatrice nods, and puts forward her most resolute face, summons her firmest voice—perhaps not as impressive as it would have been considering she's still in her nightgown and a long braid, but perhaps imposing nonetheless. "Kumasawa-san, please tell Kinzo-san that I don't want to see him," she says unsmilingly.

Her heart sinks when Kumasawa shakes her head. For a moment, it had looked like her nurse would agree to do what she asked. But the look she sports now is one of weary resignation, and it makes her look older than her years, more than her gathering gray hairs ever could. "You must go to see him, Beatrice-sama," she tells her young charge gently. "The master is your benefactor; it would be rude of you to refuse to see him."

In times past, warning her about rudeness would be enough to get Beatrice to acquiesce to whatever it was she was attempting to refuse to do. Today, however, today Beatrice no longer cares about rudeness. She's resolved not to see Kinzo again; Kumasawa and Kinzo himself can call her rude all they like. "Can't you tell him I'm ill or indisposed?" she tries, praying inwardly that Kumasawa will understand.

The older woman gives her a sad, twitching smile. "I'm afraid I can't. If I told the master that you were ill, he would insist on seeing you here." _Here?! _"He'd be angry once he realized that you weren't in fact unwell."

_Angry… What would he do then? _Beatrice shudders, and decides with a heavy heart that even if she doesn't want to see Kinzo again, it's almost certainly better to try to appease him and keep him from becoming angry with her. She nods, and clambers out of bed. "Alright, Kumasawa-san. Will you please help me get dressed?"

The thing about most of the dresses and gowns Beatrice owns is that they are so heavy and ornate, so intricate and complicated, that she can't dress herself without help, most days. Today she wishes, as she has wished for more than a week, that this wasn't so, that she could get dressed without having someone else have to put their hands on her. But Kumasawa's never hurt her before. It should be alright, if it's her.

_Kinzo never hurt you either, _a sibilant little voice reminds her. _And look what happened then…_

_No! _Beatrice recoils from that train of thought. _Kumasawa-san won't hurt me. Don't think like that._

Opening the wardrobe in the corner, Kumasawa pulls from it one of the dresses she knows Beatrice to like to wear in mild weather. "This one, Beatrice-sama?"

Beatrice looks at the gown and grimaces. It's made of pale, salmon pink lawn cloth, with a low-cut, fitted bodice, elbow-length sleeves made of fine lace, a heavily ruffled skirt, and adorned all over with white ribbon. A dress fit for a princess. It's lovely, and Beatrice has always loved to wear it, but…

_He was looking at me. He was looking at my bare skin. Maybe if I wear something that doesn't show as much skin, he won't…_

"I wanted to wear something different, Kumasawa-san." Beatrice steps into the wardrobe, and starts to look through her winter gowns, none of which have been moved into storage yet. She looks through burgundy and maroon, passes over gold and beige and silver, barely spares a glance for fuchsia, lavender or teal, until she finally finds the dress she's looking for.

She pulls from her wardrobe a navy blue satin dress, high-collared, long-sleeved, with a heavy, draped skirt. It might not be particularly comfortable to wear outside, but Beatrice will feel safer in it than she will in that pink dress. _I'll go out like this, in that dress, with no jewelry or makeup, and just a plain braid down my back. Hopefully, I'll be fine._

When Beatrice steps outside a few minutes later, she finds that her prediction was correct. It is indeed warm today, and this gown with its high, stiff collar and tight sleeves is nothing short of stifling. Almost immediately, sweat starts to gather at her collar.

That sweat turns cold and clammy when she sees Kinzo sitting under the arbor.

Beatrice stops dead in her tracks when she sees him sitting there. Instead of pounding, her heart barely beats at all; time seems to stand still. There he is, tall, white-haired, imposing, sitting there, drinking tea calmly as though nothing out of the ordinary happened between them the last time they met. Insanely, that gives Beatrice some measure of hope. Maybe, he won't talk about it, won't try to do it again. Maybe, he'll let her put this all to rest, without making it any harder for her than before.

Marshalling her courage, Beatrice finishes the walk down the stone path to the arbor, taking a seat across from Kinzo at the wrought-iron table.

Neither of them speak. Kinzo doesn't look at her and Beatrice stares down into her lap, where her hands lie, clenched into fists. Beatrice might have found the courage to go sit down near him, but she can't find it in her to talk. For all that she knows she's not a doll, she feels like one now, stiff and silent and unyielding, made of porcelain and stuffing rather than flesh. She feels like she's been sitting here since the dawn of time. She feels like one who wished for the earth to swallow her up, but was refused, and forced to face the fear in her heart without anything to soften the blow.

She's not angry at him. Beatrice thought she would be, once she saw him again, thought she would be angry at Kinzo for hurting her and making her feel like this, but she's not. She's not angry. She's scared.

In the past few days, Beatrice has come to a realization that makes her feel even more vulnerable than she has before. Kinzo can do anything to her, and suffer no consequences for it. He can do whatever he pleases, and while she might say no to him, she won't do so without consequence. She is powerless. She relies totally on him for the money needed to maintain her home. Kinzo is stronger than her—that has already been starkly proven. Without him, she has nothing. She would never be able to survive without him.

When she was little, Beatrice would walk on the low walls that confined the flowerbeds when she was bored. As she got older, she remembers how progressively difficult it became to keep her balance, as she was made to wear dresses with heavy skirts or constrictive bodices, as she was made to wear all her hair piled up on her head, which made her just a touch top-heavy. She feels that way now, struggling to keep her balance. If she falls, she'll fall either on the side of having tried to hard to look out for her own happiness and security, or on the side of having tried too hard to make him happy with her.

Beatrice has never wanted Kinzo to be angry with her. She's never wanted him to be anything but happy with her. She thought of him as a father—_still _thinks of him as a father, or at least as close to a father as she has. Never does Beatrice feel happier than when Kinzo smiles at her. Or, at least, she used to. Now, if he smiles, no matter what sort of smile it is she'll still think of that sick, slightly lopsided smile he wore that day, as he fumbled at the buttons at the back of her gown, at the pins in her hair.

She's not angry at him. She's scared of him. She wants him to be happy with her.

These contradictions swirl around in Beatrice's head and make the world seem over-bright, over-saturated with violent color. The world is gray and dripping wet from recent rains, but it seems too bright now, too vibrant, too full of competing sights and sounds and smells. It—

"You look pale."

All sane, rational thought flees Beatrice's mind when she feels his hand—not even his hand, just his fingertips—press down upon her cheek, unbidden, unwelcome. Beatrice recoils from him so violently that she nearly falls out of her chair. Her pulse races. Her nostrils flare. She says nothing, does not scream, does not shout or wail, does not even let a whimper pass beyond her lips. Under any other circumstances, Beatrice might have been proud of how she manages to keep her composure.

_Don't run. Don't run from him. I'm not supposed to run when I wear these dresses; I'm not supposed to run at all—Kumasawa-san says that proper ladies don't run. And this dress… Wearing this dress… If I tried to run in this dress, I'd just trip and fall and hurt myself, or rip the satin. I-I'm not supposed to do that, either. I'm not… I'm not supposed to…_

Beatrice doesn't look at him, doesn't look to see if Kinzo looks hurt or angry with her rejection of what once she would have seen as harmless, even welcome. She is flooded with shame, her cheeks burning with it, not sure whether to grin and bear it or to persist in this fashion, but knowing nonetheless that she's behaving like a little girl, and that if she could manage to act like the lady she was, she wouldn't let her fear show so much.

An image comes to mind.

A bright strip of sunlight, falling over her bed.

She focuses on the light, and tries to distract her mind from fingertips and crawling skin.

-0-0-0-

The sky is gray, and that saps the color from even the showiest of spring flowers. Beatrice finds herself sitting under the cover of an enormous hydrangea bush, so large it dwarfs even a grown man (this one has grown away from the main garden, and as such, the gardener does not see much point in keeping it trimmed and sculpted), wondering absently if, should she stain her gray-green skirt, the grass stains will even show.

It occurs to Beatrice that to hide in a flower bush is childish behavior, and that she's not supposed to act this way anymore. It occurs to her that if she stays out here long enough without letting anyone know where she is, Kumasawa and her servants will get worried. It also occurs to her that if it rains while she's still sitting beneath green leaves and powder blue petals, she won't be able to return to the shelter of her home without getting soaked, even if she abandoned decorum and ran, and she'd probably catch a cold, like Kumasawa always says she will if she gets caught in the rain in spring.

These things don't really seem all that important, though. Not right now.

Beatrice has chosen to slip under this particular hydrangea bush (for there are many, scattered all about the grounds) for a reason. That reason is clenched within her hands now. Here she finds herself, head bowed slightly, with each of her hands curled around a cool iron bar of the fence, staring at what she has more than ever come to see as nothing more than prison bars.

Ever since she was a little girl, Beatrice has wondered what lies beyond this fence. Kumasawa and her servants are forbidden (having been forbidden by Kinzo, no doubt) to speak to her on the subject; this she discovered early. And when she's asked Kinzo himself about it, he only responded that there was peril in the woods, that wolves lurked about, just out of sight. Even if she couldn't see them, they were there; Kinzo flipped open one of her picture books about animals to show her the dreadful creatures, with their ragged coats and lamp-like eyes.

But even with that fear, Beatrice still wondered about the outside world, and still stared at the fence in frustration.

Once, when she was little, she got away from her servants and tried to slip out through the iron bars. She was determined to see the outside world, and all there was between her and it were these iron bars, that surely would be wide enough to let her through. Well, they weren't wide enough; Beatrice got stuck, and it was only luck and the grace of God that allowed her to pull herself back through the bars before she was caught and got in trouble.

She wanted to know what was outside—_still _wants to know what's outside. What is the world outside like?

The most she's ever heard about the outside world was something Genji (who hasn't shown his face to her for weeks now) said to her in secret, flouting Kinzo's command that she be told nothing about the outside world. _"It is a place full of everything you've ever thought of," _he said to her in that dry, calm voice he's always had. _"A place where anything can happen."_

If Genji had intended to curb her curiosity with those words, then he ought to have chosen better words. That description of the outside world only inflamed Beatrice's curiosity and her desire to see it for herself. What could the world be like? Was it like the world of her fairy tales? She could imagine no other world, after all, and, with the surroundings she had been raised in and the fairy tales she had been raised _on_, Beatrice can only envision a world of castles and distant towers and parapets, when she thinks of the outside world. What fantastical sights, and sounds, and smells would she experience, if she could just get past these prison bars?

Now more than ever, she wants to leave. She wants to leave this place behind, and never see it again. This was once Beatrice's safe haven, a little dull at times, but still safe and sound. It is a safe haven no longer. She no longer feels safe here, always feels as though there are people watching her, hiding just out of sight, waiting for when she's at her weakest to—

Suddenly, Beatrice's stomach heaves. Her hands go from grasping prison bars to digging into the soft loam, as her stomach heaves again. She suddenly feels a flushed, sticky wave of warmth wash over her, despite the fact that the day is cool, even a little chilly. She gasps for breath, feeling stabs of pain all through her abdomen. Then, the muscles in her neck contract, and she vomits, over and over again.

Shoulders hunched, Beatrice wheezes, struggling for breath, eyes watering, now finding herself bathed in a pervasive cold sweat. She finds herself weak and shaky, as she always does after having been sick, but she finds weariness and the urge to cry warring with confusion.

_I'm not sick. I've not eaten anything today that might make me sick—just toast and eggs, and they both tasted fine. Why did this happen, then?_

Beatrice stares down at the bile uncomprehendingly, trying not to think overmuch about the noxious smell that rises up from it. Then, shakily, she gets to her feet. Her legs wobble like jelly, but she forces herself to walk, straight and tall, back towards Kuwadorian.

If one of her attendants found her here, huddled over her own vomit, they'd just worry over her unduly. She doesn't want to cause undue distress for anyone here. It's a one-time thing. No need to get worried about it.

-0-0-0-

While Beatrice convinces herself for that day that her sudden vomiting fit was just a one-time thing, a few days later, she's proved wrong on that score.

Kumasawa finds her huddled over her toilet, gasping, heaving, sweating, golden tendrils slipping from the knot of hair on the back of her head. Her skirt's gotten tangled about her legs and as a result from the calf down her right leg is pressed bare against the tiles; the porcelain is cold and, despite the horrible heat that fills her as she vomits, the chill of the tiles seeps up her leg and into the rest of her. Beatrice doesn't even notice her nurse's presence in the washroom with her until she flushes the toilet and spots Kumasawa's reflection in the water, staring down at her, brow furrowed.

Beatrice looks up and manages a weak smile for her nurse, who looks nothing but concerned. "Hello, Kumasawa-san."

"Are you ill, Beatrice-sama?" Kumasawa asks her, sounding troubled to find her here like this, frankly, a bit more troubled than Beatrice expected her to sound. She puts her hands on Beatrice's shoulders comfortingly; though she knows Kumasawa means well, it's all Beatrice can do not to pull away from her touch, and she feels guilty about that. Once again, what once seemed completely innocuous can no longer be trusted not to be dangerous.

"I… I'm not sure." A sharp pain digs into her stomach, and for a moment Beatrice thinks she'll be ill again, but then the pain passes, and she can't resist breathing a sigh of relief. "I wasn't feeling unwell until a few minutes ago."

Kumasawa's frown only deepens. "Has anything else been strange, Beatrice-sama?" That inquiry sounds like a loaded question; Beatrice can't help but be wary of it, despite (or perhaps because) not knowing why Kumasawa would ask her this or why she seems to consider it something of importance to know.

But however strange Beatrice might find Kumasawa's question, she has been taught to be obedient, and she racks her brains to think if anything as regards to her health has been out of the ordinary lately. And no, she really can't think of a thing. She's not run any fevers, nor had any problems with allergies, nor gotten any headaches or weird pains in her joints. Everything's been normal, as regards to her physical health. (_She's still having nightmares, still jumps at loud noises, still fears being touched and still fears waking up to find someone in her bedchamber with her, but Kumasawa didn't ask about that so she won't tell…_)

Well, when Beatrice thinks of it, there is something.

She almost shrugs, before reminding herself that proper ladies aren't supposed to shrug. "Well…" she hesitates, wondering whether this is even proper to talk about at all. _Kumasawa-san asked if anything was wrong. I can't lie to her and say no. She won't be offended. _"That bleeding that you told me happens every month… It didn't happen this month." Beatrice will confess to actually having been rather relieved by that. When that bleeding happens, she gets pain just below her stomach and she wakes up and feels tired and achy the whole morning. Plus, even with the toiletries Kumasawa gives her to help the blood from getting on her clothes, sometimes they don't catch it all and she stains her undergarments with blood. _And why do women _have _to bleed every month anyways?_

Beatrice can immediately discern the change in Kumasawa when she discloses this piece of information to her. She stiffens, her hands tightening on Beatrice's shoulders (she wants more than ever to squirm out of her grip), and her eyes stare unseeingly at the wall facing them. "Have I done something wrong?" Beatrice queries anxiously. "I-I mean, if I have, I'll fix it right away." Her lip wobbles. Her voice shakes. "Please don't be angry at me, Kumasawa-san. I'll fix it," she promises feebly.

This seems to draw Kumasawa back to reality. She looks at her charge, who sees her eyes crammed with horror, disgust, and, most unsettling of all, pity. She smiles down at Beatrice, but that smile seems forced and false, and the emotions in her eyes don't shift at all. "Well, Beatrice-sama, we can't know for sure right now, but I suspect that you are with child."

At this, Beatrice can only stare at her uncomprehendingly. "'With child'?" She really doesn't understand where Kumasawa is going with this, or why this is something she seems to consider so important. "That can't be right, Kumasawa-san. There are no children here at Kuwadorian; I'm the only person who's ever spent her childhood here."

Pain creases Kumasawa's face, but she does not hesitate to correct Beatrice's misconception. "That's not what I meant, Beatrice-sama. Do you remember when the cat got with kittens?" she asks gently. When Beatrice nods, she presses on. "Well, the same thing has happened to you."

Now, though she might be a bit naïve, Beatrice is by no stretch of the word a stupid girl. When Kumasawa clarifies the situation for her, she comes to understand immediately—and for not a moment does she think that she's going to be having kittens. She goes cold. She doesn't understand. _But… But how… How could this happen…_ "But I don't want—" Beatrice cuts herself off, swallowing thickly. "How did this happen?" she asks shakily. Her shoulders start to tremble. Her lip quivers even more than before. No answer is forthcoming. "Kumasawa-san, how did this happen?"

A long moment passes, long, humid, full of buzzing thoughts. Finally, Kumasawa sighs heavily, not meeting Beatrice's gaze. "Beatrice-sama…" She squeezes her eyes shut, her face even more deeply furrowed with pain than it was before "…I think," she says very quietly, "it would have been that day I found you and the master in your bedchamber."

_Then… It was then, it was that-that day. Because of that?_

Her stomach heaves and Beatrice again finds herself over the toilet, retching miserably. His fingernails had dug into her shoulders that day, and she just wishes that Kumasawa would take her hands off of her shoulders. She understands now, and yet she understands even less than before.

"Oh," she says, spitting chunks of her lunch from her mouth. Her voice is hollow; it rings like a bell, or so it sounds to her. "Oh."

And that's all she can say, for now.

-0-0-0-

Of course, the matter of her being pregnant is explained more thoroughly soon after. Beatrice is told what to expect and that, sometime in December or in January, she will give birth to a child, the way the cat gave birth to her kittens two years ago.

She never gives her attendants any reason to think that she is unduly upset by this. She's never wanted to cause them distress or make their lives more difficult for them than possible. To the faces of Kumasawa, Hana, Misaki, Genji (who has finally resurfaced again, looking strained and ghastly pale), and all the others, she puts on a blank, emotionless face, letting on nothing of what she feels in her heart. But this revelation only makes her already heavy heart a heavier one. Her heart is waterlogged and drowning. The rest of her has but to follow.

She doesn't want to have a baby. She doesn't want to be a mother. Beatrice has never given much thought to either of those things before, never really having had any reason to think of them or having any knowledge of them at all. But she doesn't want it. She doesn't want some alien creature growing in her belly, feeding off of her, eventually crawling out of her slicked down with blood. Especially not like this.

It's sunny outside today, but the wind is blowing so strong that even sitting down Beatrice's long skirt puckers and billows. The usually smooth surface of the black tea in her cup ruffles.

There's no telling from looking at him if Kinzo knows—and it's a struggle to look at him at all. He's behaving as he ever has, as though nothing has happened between them, drinking his tea, not looking at her. Beatrice's waterlogged heart pounds in her throat. Has Kumasawa told him? Does he already know, and is he just trying to ignore it or behave as though nothing has happened?

Beatrice licks her dry, clammy lips. Whether Kinzo knows or not—whether or not he knows that she's going to have a baby because of what he did that day—she has to tell him. The words are gathering in the hollow of her chest; she feels as though she'll split open, clean in two, if she doesn't tell him, if she doesn't let the words spill from her mouth.

"Kumasawa-san told me I'm going to have a baby," she blurts out, gauche and awkward like a young child.

This gets Kinzo's attention. He stares at her, open-mouthed, looking like he's sure that he misheard her. "Beatrice?" His voice is hoarse, and for the first time since that day, she sees him on the verge of losing his composure, if only just a little bit.

Despite herself, despite having told herself over and over again from the moment she learned that he was here that she was going to be brave, that she would just tell him and take the consequences as they came, Beatrice shrinks in her chair. "Kumasawa-san… She told me that I'm going to have a baby," she says again, barely audibly. "Like the cat when she had kittens," she clarifies weakly, thinking that maybe Kinzo needs that example too, like she did.

Comprehension visibly dawns on Kinzo's face like a stroke of doom. He goes so pale so fast that for a moment Beatrice is sure he's going to faint, just collapse out of his chair like she's heard from the servants people do sometimes when they're very ill. Kinzo doesn't faint, but horror stamps itself against his ashen face, plain as day in his eyes. Breathing raggedly now, he reaches over to grasp her hand. "Beatrice…"

Beatrice rips her hand from his grasp, clenching it in her lap and cursing her forgetfulness, cursing having forgotten what would happen if she left any part of herself within his grasp. Her breath catches in her chest; she tries and fails to swallow on the lump in her throat. She doesn't notice the wind, but is acutely aware of the sun beating down on her back and the burning at the corners of her eyes.

"Beatrice, I…" Kinzo gets up from his chair, and Beatrice's heart nearly stops when she feels his hand on her shoulder.

She nearly knocks her chair to the ground escaping from it and Kinzo's grip on her shoulder. He tries to hug her ("Beatrice, _please_…") but she pushes him away. "Don't…" she chokes out, staring at the ground, staggering. "Don't touch me," she whispers. "I'm sorry." _What if he gets angry?_ "I'm sorry, please don't touch me. I'm sorry, don't touch me. Please don't touch me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…"

Still muttering apologies, Beatrice starts to run away. "I'm sorry." She knows she's not supposed to run. "I'm sorry." Proper ladies aren't supposed to run. "I'm sorry." Hot tears dribble down her blotchy cheeks. "I'm sorry." She doesn't care for propriety, and she doesn't notice the tears even when they get in her mouth and garble her voice so it's barely comprehensible anymore.

_Beatrice focuses her eyes on the strip of sunlight on the bed, but that can't entirely distract her attention from what Kinzo's doing. His hands have gone from her shoulders to her hips; there are fingernails marks in the flesh of her shoulders and his palms are sweaty. She just lies there, inert, unmoving, like a porcelain doll or a corpse, hoping beyond hope that if she just lies still he'll stop doing whatever it is he's doing._

_Young Beatrice hopes in vain._

His cries ring in her ears. "Come back!" A howl of anguish tears itself from his lungs. Under any other circumstances, such a sound would fill Beatrice with pity, but tormented by the demons of memory herself, she can barely hear it.

She keeps running, and does not stop running once she has returned inside of Kuwadorian. She keeps running, ignoring the servants' stares, ignoring the concerned noises emitting from their throats. She tears inside her chamber and locks the door, sliding down against the oaken panel of her door, sobbing helplessly, pulling her knees up to her chest and not even noticing when someone outside pounds on the door, calling for her to let them in. Her swollen eyes see nothing. Her ears are deaf to all but her own heaving sobs.

_Was that what you were trying to do then? You thought I should have a child? That's not what I wanted. I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this. I am a bird in a cage made of pure gold, and to you…_

_To you, I am someone different._

_You see someone I have never been._

_Your Golden Witch._

_Why?_

_Why did you do this?_

-0-0-0-

That night, once she's unable any longer to outrun the demon that wishes her to sleep, Beatrice is trapped in the realm of her dreams.

Kinzo rips her clothes from her flesh, and that sunny day happens all over again. _"Beatrice… Beatrice… My Golden Witch, Beatrice…" _She lies there, motionless and unresponsive, just as before, looking away as not a single inch of her skin is left untouched by hands or lips or tongue. This time, she wants to fight back, wants to scream, but her limbs feel as though made of water and her voice has deserted her.

When done with her flesh, he rips it from her bones, piece by piece. She watches, empty, hollowed-out, no longer capable of fear or even shock, as he eats her fingers, her toes, chunks of flesh from her thighs, her breasts. Finally, he cuts out her tongue and chews on it slowly, savoring the taste as though it were the finest steak. She can't bring herself to care. It no longer matters.

Then, she finds herself whole again, but alone in a bed very like but not quite her own, surrounded by inky, impenetrable darkness on all sides. There are rustling sounds and the murmurs of whispering all around her, but no matter how much Beatrice strains her vision, she can see no one. She cries out weakly, and is given no response.

Beatrice lies, unable to move, unable even to lift her head, on the bed. She's naked, she notices just now, and…

And her belly is swelling up like a balloon.

Beatrice watches, fascinated, horrified, as her belly expands, growing wider and rounder all the time. It stops growing, and for a moment, the stretched surface of her midsection is smooth. But then, it starts to ripple. Then, it starts to groan. Then, it starts to rip and tear. Hands are ripping her stomach apart, clean in two, from the inside. A thing that might be human, pasty pale, sexless, totally featureless except for a horrible grin stretching ear to ear, full of teeth, emerges from her belly, shaking her intestines from its shoulders. Its tiny hands are smeared with blood and sticky as they lovingly wrap shut around her throat.

Wakefulness brings her no relief. Beatrice counts her heartbeats once they have slowed enough to be distinguished from one another, and isn't sure if the waking world is any less of a nightmare than the terror she escaped by stirring.

-0-0-0-

"_Kumasawa-san…"_

"_Yes, Beatrice-sama?"_

"_Who… Who am I?"_

"_Beatrice-sama?"_

"_Ah, I've always wondered about that, you see. And lately…" She tries to smile, but even when her lips curl upwards they tremble, and her half-shut eyes are filling with tears again. She's been crying so often lately; her eyes are always bloodshot, her nose always running, her head always aching. "…Lately, I'm even less sure. So please, tell me who I am."_

_Kumasawa doesn't answer her. But then, Beatrice didn't really expect her to. She gave up on ever hoping to have that question answered a long time ago._

The weather has passed the threshold of one season into another. It is full summer now, the heat fully bloomed and the humidity, more than the heat, driving everyone into the cool of the house. There is a storm coming, one of those fierce summer storms—that much is clear from the coal-gray sky and the thunder rumbling in the distance. Beatrice sits in a window seat in her bedchamber, head resting against the window, staring out at the world listlessly.

Her belly has begun to burgeon over the past few months, not the rapid swelling of her nightmares, but not any more welcome. Her breasts have grown as well, swelling, growing tender and sore to the touch. Her nipples are larger, darker. She can see the veins under her skin. They, more than her belly, have necessitated her wearing new dresses specially designed to be loose about her chest and midsection. It's like wearing her nightgown and dressing gown all day. If she were a few years younger, she might have welcomed not having to dress in those tight, constricting dresses.

Rarely does Beatrice speak anymore, and rarely does anyone but Kumasawa ever speak to her. She lives out her days lost in her own thoughts, seeing a world that no longer means the same thing to her as it does to anyone around her.

She is no happier about the child apparently growing every day in her belly now than she was when she first learned of it. She feels no kinship to the thing that's taken up residence inside of her. Beatrice doesn't think that's the way she's _supposed _to feel. After all, in all the fairy tales she's ever read, a woman was always delighted to become the mother of children. A child is always a joy.

But then again, her life is not a fairy tale.

Beatrice knows that now.

Her life, she realizes, pressing her cheek against the cool glass, the scope of her world, always small, has shrunk. It's shrunk to what she can see and touch, and to the shadows she fears, the night she fears, the darkness she fears. Memories can spring up at any time, whether she's expecting it or not, whether she wants it or not—and she never wants it.

It doesn't always help, and it never banishes the phantom sensations from Beatrice's mind entirely, but when these moments come, one image springs up in her mind's eye. That of a bright strip of sunlight, falling across the bed, as her world as she knows it ends in an instant.


End file.
